You stared at the page, letters dancing like they were alive, refusing to stay put. The sentence made no sense, no matter how many times you read it.

“Ugh, Damiano,” you groaned, closing the book with a sigh. “Why does reading have to be this hard? Everyone else just gets it.”

From the doorway, Damiano peeked in, that steady presence you’d always relied on.

“Hey,” he said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. “You’re not everyone else.”

You looked at him, trying to hold back the lump in your throat.

“I know. It’s just… sometimes the words don’t want to be friends with me.”

He smiled, gentle and sure.

“That’s okay. We’ll make them behave together.”

He grabbed a notebook and colored pens, putting them between you.

“Let’s try something different. Pictures, colors — whatever helps you.”

You watched him carefully, how patient he was, how he never made you feel rushed or stupid.

“Thanks, Damiano,” you whispered.

He nudged you playfully.

“What, you’re gonna cry on me now? That's why you have an older brother, I need to be at least a little useful.”